


This Could Get Messy (But You Don't Seem To Mind)

by th_esaurus



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 21:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7523008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Go fuck yourself," March said. "I mean—fuck. Metaphorically. Fuck me, not—"</p><p>"I got you," Healy said, so soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Could Get Messy (But You Don't Seem To Mind)

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of challenged myself to write this in one day, so. 
> 
> ???

Nobody could accuse Jackson Healy of being an abstinent man; but he had a way of setting his mind to things. He had no great desire to give up drinking, but frankly he'd had enough of jail, and the two seemed to go hand in hand. Seven sober months, and he'd lost a little (not all) of his paunch, put on a bit of muscle, got up at a decent time of the day, earned a decent living.

His other great feat of willpower was, you know. A prolonged period of chastity. He lived in Los Angeles, and this was the seventies; he could've bought it if he'd needed it. It was over three years he'd gone without getting his dick wet - he didn't know the exact stretch, which he was oddly proud of - and one of those years he'd still been married to June, so. That was the state of things.

And then he'd shacked up with Holland March, who, like goddamn Elijah, had bought a sudden and rapturous end to the drought.

A man of Healy's age never really expects a second lease of life. Gets what he's given and pretends to be grateful.

But listen: he'd woken up one morning, drowsy and naked, sweat beading around his collarbone and navel, with Holland March perched between his open legs at the end of the bed. "What's—"

"No, you—" March started. His hands were hovering, shaky, over Healy's thick bare thighs, and Healy had a sudden memory of June looking at his crotch, disdainful, and saying pointedly, _if you think I'm putting my mouth anywhere near that, Jack Healy—_

March swallowed. "You were asleep and I wanted to suck your dick because it's right there, but that's probably the kind of thing you're s'posed to ask before just going at it, I mean, I wouldn't complain if _I_ woke up with _you_ blowing me but that's because I'm a degenerate, and you're, I don't know, a reformed sinner—"

"March." Healy said. He propped himself up on his elbows, his body feeling heavy with sleep and the motion a struggle. He wanted to see March's face. Flushed and freckled, his ears so red they were glowing; it was a pretty picture. It usually was.

"Blow me," Healy said.

"Thank fuck," March groaned, and got to it.

So, no, Healy didn't exactly take the revelation of Holland March into his second wind of life for granted.

It was one of those inconsequential days between cases, nothing much to do except enjoy a wallet flush with cash, postponing the panic of being part-time unemployed. LA bathed its denizens in long hours of relentless sunshine, clouds in the sky enough of a rarity that passing strangers on the street remarked on them: _looks like rain, huh?_ March kept every blind in the house pulled down on days like this; he was avoiding the AC bill and their leftover fliers were slowly being transformed into an impressive collection of paper fans.

Healy dozed uncomfortably on top of the bedsheets. March, last night - drunk - had gone on a thirty minute rant about how bedsheets were completely fucking pointless in this miserable heat, a money grab by department store charlatans who confounded you with thread counts and Egyptian cotton.

"It's so you don't have to fit the mattress in the washer," Healy said mildly. March would forget it by morning.

They tended to go big once cases got wrapped up, March still managing to needle Healy into a night stumbling between bars if there was a cause for it. Healy was currently on the wagon, exerting some of that legendary willpower, and privately he assumed he only wasn't drinking because of how he was getting a good fuck at very regular intervals right now. One or the other. He was strong but still a little flabby; his lifestyle wasn't exactly Spartan.

So he drank Coke and played designated driver for March. March made friends with anyone once he was drunk enough, and seeing as he was already friendly - or something - with Healy, he became practically licentious. He was draped over Healy's shoulders like a slung jacket, while Healy fiddled with his car keys, and kept hissing jibberish dirty talk in his ear. He seemed pretty fixated on telling Healy how good he pounded March's ass, a line he'd absolutely picked up from some cheap porn he probably discovered in a sexuality crisis in his twenties.

"No I'm not gonna pound you," Healy told him for the third time, utterly amused. "You're drunk."

"Scout's honour, I have never had whiskey-dick in my life," March announced very loudly to the empty parking lot.

"You were never a fucking boy scout."

"You don't know me," March scoffed, affronted, and then slumped against Healy's neck, possibly trying to make out with it or, more likely, asleep.

Healy got home home, got him undressed, awkward and pliable as a marionette, got him in bed, with March ranting obnoxiously all the while. Now that Holly had a second in command to see her father through his binges - rarer these days, admittedly - she had been quite happily shooed off to Jessica's for an impromptu sleepover.

Healy took a two minute shower, towelled his hair dry, and slipped into bed next to March. Discreetly and gently turned him over to face his godawful beer breath away from Healy's face.

Healy was stupid fond of Holland March, though he had no damn clue why.

Late-morning sun was poking through a wonky slat in the bedroom blinds. Healy yawned widely, scratched at his belly, fumbled around on the bedside table for a glass of water. He hadn't had the foresight, and rolled out of bed, padding vaguely towards the kitchen. He was, on the whole, a morning kinda guy, making up for time lost in rinky dink prisons, backwater bars and community service. But he'd softened some, since he started whatever this was with March; didn't have to be so strict to pull himself through each day. He had more pleasant distractions.

March was awake, and looked abjectly unhappy about this fact. Some people can hide a hangover, turn up at the office the next day with a smile on their face and an easy joke about a heavy night; March could barely form words. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the cabinets like they held the secrets of the universe, and feebly swirling half a cup of coffee that, from the looks of it, was greasy and cold. He had a little beer belly that his posture didn't help, and his hair looked like chewed-on hay. Also, he had on a pair of silk pyjama pants, creased to hell, in a sort of ugly multicolour paisley that made it look like the sixties had thrown up on him.

Healy thought to himself, quite content, that he was going to fuck Holland March.

He got himself some water while March groaned pitifully at the clanking of the glass, the spit of the faucet, Healy's lipsmacking gulps, then groaned even louder when he risked a glance at Healy.

"Oh Christ," he managed, "Put some pants on, Jack."

"Hmm?"

"You know I wanna suck your dick every time I see it," he said miserably, still shakily fussing with his coffee, as if that would make it drinkable. Healy switched on the coffee machine and plucked the mug from his hands, draining the dregs in the sink and swilling it out with clean water. March mumbled something that might have been a thank you. His hand was still hovering in midair. Healy filled it with freshly brewed Joe.

And then he sidled up to March, crowding him against the kitchen counter. March moaned out loud at the slick, hot press of Healy's chest against his back, both of them sweating already, and sucked his stomach in to try and dip away from Healy's searching hands. "Oh god," he wailed, "Oh my god, you're _horny_."

"Like it's such a fucking scandal," Healy tutted, sliding his palms under March's waistband. He didn't like to go for broke all at once; instead, danced his fingers along March's bony hips and over the little swell of his ass, kneading with his thumbs. He had a funny sort of body, March - lanky and lacking in grace, spattered with blonde hair on his chest and nipples and crotch, freckled on his shoulders; but none of it was out of place against anything else. His ass fit very nicely in Healy's thick fingers, thank you very much, and that was more than enough to be getting on with.

"It's too hot," March was still complaining, even as his hips canted back into Healy's touch. "It's too damn hot and I'm hungover and I'm drinking this garbage coffee and you hate my morning breath—"

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Fuck. Yes."

Healy hummed against his neck, pleased.

"My subconscious was not prepping me to accommodate your—molesting me this morning—"

"Maybe not," Healy said, slipping his hands lower, getting right in the warm valley where March's ass met his thighs. "But here we are."

"I hate everything you stand for," March moaned.

The kitchen blinds, like everywhere else, were pulled down, glowing just enough to illuminate March's all-over flush. Healy was working up a nice rhythm now, his palms circling over March's skin, as much pressure as he dared. He let his fingers skim over March's half-mast cock, then fisted his hand around it, confident, and March doubled over the kitchen counter like he'd been hit, groaning deep in his throat. The sound went straight to Healy's dick. He liked that - flashes of June, again, her little sighs from the early days, and then her unpleasant silence - and hummed in return.

He spread March's ass with his thumbs, making dimples in his skin. Slid along the warmth of it, rubbed himself properly hard, languid vertical strokes that made him rock up on his toes. March had his cheek against the counter, his mouth open, alternately cussing Healy out for what he was doing and then for what he wasn't. He was gonna drool, Healy knew. They could clean it up after.

There was lube in the side table next to the bed. But Healy was quite settled where he was, thank you very much. He fumbled on the counter for the olive oil.

"Oh my god," March hissed, suddenly jerking upright. "You can't put that in my ass, we cook with that!"

Healy clucked his tongue and got the bottle cap off with his teeth, spat it on the floor. "We're not gonna fucking recycle it," he snapped. Thrust up for good measure and then dragged his cock all the way back down, leaving March cold. March let out a low _unghh—_ , a keen of loss, and Healy hushed him gently, oiled up his hands and let them slick over his hips in soft circles. It floored him, really, how much March radiated need. Not just in this, but day to day: never quite straying out of Healy's sight, looking over his shoulder to make sure Healy was still in his orbit. Even with his wife, Healy had never felt like half of a pair.

But March—

He pressed a slow, lazy kiss to the back of March's neck. His skin tasted of sea salt.

"You want me to quit it?" He murmured, checking in.

"Go fuck yourself," March said. "I mean—fuck. Metaphorically. Fuck me, not—"

"I got you," Healy said, so soft.

He pushed his thick forefinger slowly inside Holland March, soothing him all the while.

March had blown Healy seven times before Healy figured out he'd never taken a dick anywhere except his mouth. "Laugh it up," he'd griped, "But it's not like you're so fucking worldly."

Healy had shrugged, only a little awkwardly, and told him that he'd been on both ends. Told him, kind of hesitant, about fucking around on the avocado ranch, guys he didn't even know the names of. "There's a knack to it," he'd said wryly, "but I've got a few years of practice under my belt."

"You—" March took a shaky breath. "You've got a fucking answer for everything."

He had kissed Healy, and let Healy finger him until he was sobbing as he came.

March was seasoned enough now that he got right up to three fingers before he started turning the air blue. He rubbed his cheeks and nose against the kitchen counter, desperately trying to cool himself, his head and hands the only part of him not trapped by Healy's solid body behind him. He had that melodic rhythm back, thrusting his slick fingers up, forcing the air out of March's lungs with every push.

" _Now_ I'm gonna pound you," Healy told him.

"What the fuck," March moaned. "Who even says that?"

"You do," Healy replied, bending over to kiss March's shoulder blade as he pulled his fingers out.

It was a blissfully unhurried thing. Too hot for frenzied rutting, Healy let March settle around his cock for a moment or two, both of them planting their bare feet against the tiled floor before Healy started thrusting in earnest. He blanketed March's back with his chest, their sweat almost a burn between them, and kissed slowly along the notches of March's spine, down as far as he could go and then back up again. March's hips met him beat for beat, both of them putting in half the effort. The sun had risen enough outside to make March's skin glow, the cream countertops looking sepia in the strained light, and Healy could feel himself smiling, even as his mouth fell open, breathless.

March buried his face in his hands, got loud with his palms covering his mouth, and Healy reached up gently, pulled his wrists back; wanted to hear him. He got high pitched when he was overexcited, and this was no different, but it wasn't shrill, nothing like that - a lupine keening, a howl trapped in his throat. Healy fucked up hard, got one hand back on March's dick, stroked fast now. Wanted to pull it right out of him.

" _Fuck—_ " March sobbed, his forehead pressed to the counter. "I'm gonna come on the—the fucking cupboards, Jackson—"

"Yeah you are," Healy growled, and grabbed at March's hips, went for it, sweat trickling down the back of his neck from the exertion but worth it, God, worth it—

March came first, in the end, that animal noise wrenched from his throat, taut and high. Healy's own orgasm was lower, deeper, but just as raw, holding March's hips against his own as he thrust a few shallow jolts, riding it right the way through.

It was boiling. Goddamn, it was too hot for this. But they stayed there slumped against the counter regardless, just feeling each other breathe for a few moments. For a good many years, Healy hadn't really understood the term _post-coital_ ; assumed that what came after sex was disgruntled, sticky sleep. But feeling the shallow rise of March's ribcage as he found his breath again, his nose nestled in the damp ends of March's hair on the back of his neck, Healy thought that maybe he could—

Maybe they could, together—

"You're cleaning this shit up," March mumbled against Healy's arm.

"Fair deal," Healy sighed. He felt—content. That's how simple it was.

No, he wasn't exactly the picture of restraint. Every man had his vices, after all. But this certainly seemed the lesser of a plethora of evils. This pleasant whatever-it-was with Holland March.


End file.
